At the end of a conversation that, conducted via a translator, strains my intellectual faculties to their limit but barely flexes his, Aleksandr Sokurov makes an astounding statement. "I'm a very literary person. I don't really like cinema very much."
Pardon? That is like hearing David Attenborough say he has never really liked animals. Here is a man who was persecuted by the communists for his films; the man who gave us a miraculous feature conducted in one single, unbroken shot, 2002's Russian Ark; the man who is the custodian of Russia's great cinematic heritage. What would he have done if he did like cinema?
Sokurov's films are characterised by poetic imagery, spiritual allusions, big, big themes and long, long takes. They can be challenging to the point of impenetrable, but when they work, the results are undeniably powerful, transcendent even. His international breakthrough, 1997's Mother and Son, struck deep spiritual and emotional chords with little more than two actors and a painterly eye for landscape.
Russian Ark, a virtuoso tour of St Petersburg's Hermitage museum and its history, is probably Sokurov's most accessible work; but overshadowing his entire career is his "tetralogy of power", a magnum opus conceived in 1980 and only completed this year. The first three films focused on 20th-century leaders — Hitler in 1999's Moloch, Lenin in 2001's Taurus and Emperor Hirohito in 2005's The Sun — pinning them down in isolated, almost abstract domestic situations. The final film, a loose adaptation of Goethe's Faust, is almost a complete departure. Due in the United Kingdom next year, Faust, a hallucinatory period piece full of clutter, chatter, carnality and the usual unforgettable imagery, won the top prize at this year's Venice Film Festival.
"They're all very serious, significant subjects," says Sokurov, himself the subject of a two-month retrospective now on at the BFI in London. "It's basically like a big novel, and novels take a long time." The Sun alone took ten years of research, says the filmmaker, a well-built man with greying hair and mournful blue eyes. "But then again, it took Goethe at least 40 years to write Faust!"
Why make three films on historical subjects and one on a fictional one? "Why do you think?" I suggest Faust is a sort of prequel to the other three. "Maybe," he nods. Or is it that the first three deal with the death of power, whereas Faust addresses its acquisition? "But he never gets this power," Sokurov says. "It's impossible, because it doesn't really exist. It only exists to the extent to which people are ready to submit to it. Power is not material."
Do some people have no choice but to submit to power? "No. There is always choice. Even during Stalin's terror, people had choices. They could betray or not betray, for example." Does he mean that people were persuaded, rather than forced, to submit to power?
"I would be more precise, even," he replies. "They wanted it. Because it's the most comfortable position for most people. We enjoy being forced. It takes responsibility off your shoulders. People are more afraid of responsibility than anything else. Especially all-encompassing responsibility for your country, for the security of your people, for war and peace. Many millions survived only because they withdrew from these responsibilities. For example, they voted for Hitler, they tolerated Stalin. Millions of people did nothing to stop the Cultural Revolution in China." But weren't these people just victims? He puts his hand on mine. "Of course," he says warmly. "Precisely."
We barely see the victims in Sokurov's films. His studies focus tightly on their subjects, portrayed as frail, fallible, almost ridiculous creatures with little power left to wield. In Moloch, Hitler is an arrogant hypochondriac, holed up with Eva Braun in his foggy mountain retreat. In Taurus, Lenin is irritable and bedridden, exiled to the countryside to live out his last days. In a way, suggests Sokurov, they are victims too. "They submitted as well. They submitted to the desire of their compatriots, to their own weakness, to their own delusions. In reality, greatness and power are incompatible."
Sokurov's understanding of political power was not acquired solely through research. There is also his personal experience. Born in southeastern Siberia, he grew up moving around the Soviet empire with his military family before enrolling at the VGIK film school in Moscow. His student films were criticised for displaying "formalism and anti-Soviet views"; but his debut feature, 1979's The Lonely Voice of Man, earned the approval of Andrei Tarkovsky, who helped him find work. Bizarrely, Sokurov was allowed to continue making his "anti-Soviet" films throughout the 1980s. "The totalitarian state doesn't want to destroy artists but make them submit to its influence," he says. "There were not many who resisted. But I kept on fighting."
Ironically, Sokurov finds it harder to make films in today's free market than he did in the Soviet era. That is the other reason his tetralogy has taken so long. He was preparing Faust, his most expensive film, just when the economic downturn struck, and couldn't find funding. But a surprise saviour stepped in: Vladimir Putin. Sokurov met Putin at the Russian PM's country residence. "I told him, if I don't have this opportunity to make this film, it will never happen. A few days later, I was told that the amount I needed was going to be allocated. How and why it happened I don't know. Maybe because he has a very clear idea of German culture and history. I don't think it was because of me. I've never demonstrated my loyalty to his party."
Wouldn't Putin himself make a good subject? "I'll never make films about people such as Putin because they're not of interest to me." Does his association with Putin compromise him? "When I met him recently, he asked if I was going to dub Faust into Russian. Reading between the lines, you could see these words as a sort of order. But I wasn't afraid to say no to him. The money allocated by him was the state's, not his own. According to his official salary, he shouldn't have any money. I can only be responsible to my audience, that's all."
